


The Weight He Carries

by holyfudgemonkeys (erraticallyinspired)



Series: A very jizzjazz rewrite [3]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark Malcolm Bright, Domestic Fluff, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e03 Fear Response, Established Malcolm Bright/John Watkins, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Mpreg, JizzJazz, M/M, Murder Husbands, Nightmares, a little canonical whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26761198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erraticallyinspired/pseuds/holyfudgemonkeys
Summary: In which Malcolm struggles first with nightmares and then with the disappointment of meeting Dr. Elaine Brown- with his husband by his side.---A rewrite of "Fear Response" for my established Malcolm/John series.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Paul Lazar | John Watkins
Series: A very jizzjazz rewrite [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1897057
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	The Weight He Carries

The intercom buzzes. 

John brushes the hair out of his sleeping husband’s face before reluctantly getting out of bed. There’s only one person who would come by this early without calling, and, as much as his mother-in-law tries to give them space, she can be impatient sometimes. He slips on his boots, leaving them untied, and heads down the stairs.

Back in bed, Malcolm’s brow creases. He twists in the sheets. 

John opens the door and gives Jessica a smile. 

“John,” she says with a stilted smile of her own.

He intends to invite her in, to leave her at the kitchen island with a cup of coffee while he wakes her son up —

And then they’re covered in a shower of glass as Malcolm flings himself from the window.

John’s turning on his heel before he even processes what’s happened, taking the steps three at a time, completely deaf to the harried clacking of Jessica’s shoes as she follows behind him. His grimace deepens at the damage the restraints did to the bedframe as they snapped. They’re lucky one lone strip held, anchored to the wall but not meant to take the full brunt of Malcolm’s weight. Ignoring the jagged edges of what was the window, John traces that strip right to his dangling husband.

“Could you give me a hand, dear?” Malcolm says, strained. He has a white-knuckled grip on the strap with the very hand it’s cuffed to, and the other reaches out towards John, trembling ever so slightly. 

John completes the connection. Hands clasped, he pulls his husband back into their loft, onto his feet and into his arms. He wraps an arm around Malcolm, who leans into him without a word.

Behind both of them, there’s a rustle, a few thuds, and a pour. Jessica downs two fingers of scotch as she watches them take their moment of comfort. 

The loft quiets. John carefully uncuffs Malcolm. The remnants of the restraints are piled on the end of the mattress to be discarded. Most likely, they and the bed will be replaced by the time they both tuck in for the night, courtesy of the terrified woman in their kitchen. 

“Do either of you want one?” Jessica gestures at the drink cabinet with her newly empty glass. 

Scrubbing at his face, Malcolm sighs. “Mother, why are you here?”

She glances over at John, for once not in distrust. “Have you told your husband you’ve been seeing your father?”

Malcolm closes his eyes. “Yes, I have.”

Although he puts a hand on his back in support, John doesn’t say a word. They both know this is Malcolm’s place to talk. Jessica has no idea of the connection between her ex and her son-in-law, and neither of them are willing to open up that can of worms anytime soon.

“I’m consulting with the NYPD,” Malcolm says slowly. “He proved helpful with my casework.”

She scoffs. “So, you’re a team now. Father and son, solving crimes.”

“Jessica,” John cuts in with a tone that has Malcolm putting an arm around his waist in warning, “I don’t like this any more than you do.”

“Good!”

“ _But_ your son and I have talked about this, and I support him.” And he does. He knows all too well how dangerous Malcolm’s connection with Martin is. He’s seen the danger up close, been a part of it himself. He even fears Martin, in a way, and yet he’d strike him down in a second if he had to for Malcolm’s sake. “You know I do.”

She grits her teeth. “I don’t know how neither of you can see that this is what he _wants_. He’ll get his hands on you, and once that connection is formed, he’ll use it to manipulate you, to _infect_ you.”

“I have no intention of seeing him again,” Malcolm insists. Especially not now, not when they’re trying for a baby. He will _not_ subject his children to his father, and although he refuses to say anything to anyone until they have a positive test in their hands, he hopes his resolve is coming through to his mother. “He does not control me.”

“Your husband and I just watched you throw yourself out a window!” With a frustrated sigh, she gives up. “Hold onto him, John, or else Martin might haul him away from you.” 

John looks at her steadily. “I won’t be giving him up, Jessica.” 

They watch her leave, wait until the door on the first level shuts. 

“Are you still dreaming about the team?” John’s voice is low.

Malcolm turns and buries his face in his husband’s shoulder. “About them locking me up?” He laughs bitterly. “Of course I am, dear.”

John runs a soothing hand up his side. “You won’t make the same mistakes Martin did. I won’t let you.”

“Even if I’m pregnant?” he murmurs into his shirt.

“I promise,” John says, kissing his temple. “I’ll tie you down until our little one arrives, if I have to.”

As disturbing as it sounds, Malcolm is reassured by his words, charmed even. He shifts enough that his head is merely resting on John’s shoulder. “What if I want you to tie me down right now?”

Unfortunately, John chuckles and pulls away. “Another time, little Malcolm. I believe you have an appointment with Gabrielle soon, and I’m due at the junkyard.”

Another time ends up being much, much later. Even now, as Malcolm lets Gil drive him home after they’ve solved their case, he’s too tired both physically and mentally to want sex. He just wants _John_.

Gil lays a comforting hand on his shoulder as the engine idles. “I know it was a rough one, kid. Go be with your husband.”

Malcolm smiles weakly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Gil.” Opening the door, he slips out onto the sidewalk and trudges up the steps to their loft. It won’t be empty. He knows John is home already, that he knows to expect Malcolm in low spirits after his less than idyllic encounters with Dr. Elaine Brown. Maybe they’ll cuddle. Maybe John will update him on the progress of his latest mission.

There’s a soft crackle in the living room. The fireplace is lit, the flames well-maintained by an experienced hand. John pushed the coffee table back towards the couch, and it’s covered in a hefty stack of books. 

Familiar books. 

Malcolm tilts his head. Those are Dr. Brown’s books alright. The entire collection, by the looks of it. The dust jackets are faded and ripped from numerous rereads, though the pages inside are still fairly pristine, because he was _always_ careful with them. He treasured them — and not just for the work itself. Most of them were gifts from John. John, who didn’t care much about Dr. Brown at all but cared about Malcolm with a fervor.

Each and every one has a handwritten note inside. Some of them aren’t even romantic, but Malcolm knows them all by heart. Those notes were pieces of his husband he could carry with him no matter if he was states away. 

Arms envelope him, a warm body against his back and a beard against his neck. “Are you ready for your surprise?”

“Yes.” Malcolm closes his eyes and enjoys the embrace. Being able to actually touch John is definitely a benefit of being back in New York. 

John guides him over to the fireplace, to the stack of books that don’t inspire the same feeling of wonder they once did. “We have plenty of fuel,” he says, amused, gesturing to the coffee table. 

Although he knows John means well, Malcolm bites his lip. The information is still good, to an extent. Just because he doesn’t particularly _like_ Dr. Brown anymore doesn’t mean she was wrong about everything, but even more than that, he has so many memories attached to those books. He hesitates. And decides.

“Little Malcolm?”

Kissing John’s cheek to reassure him, Malcolm dips out from under his arm and climbs the steps to his office space. His desk is neatly organized. He knows exactly where the item he’s looking for is, but he still makes a quiet _a-ha_ sound when he finds it — his hobby knife. He unscrews the top and slips a fresh blade in. Not bothering to cap it, Malcolm joins his husband again. 

John’s eyes linger on the knife, travel up his arm to his face, a question in his eyes.

Malcolm smiles. He drops down to the floor and grabs the top book off the stack. It takes four small but precise cuts to excise the handwritten message he’s poured over time and time again. He hands the rest of it over to John. He grabs the next.

Chuckling, John rips a few pages from it and feeds them into the fire. 

One after the other, page by page, the books are consumed. 

Malcolm leans against his husband and watches the flames. It’s… uplifting, somehow. 

John rubs his arm. “I have everything for s’mores in the kitchen.”

_That_ is even better. Chocolate sounds perfect after the day he’s had. Pulling back, Malcolm kisses him softly. “Thank you, dear.”


End file.
